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NO HARD FEELINGS; GOT NO FEELINGS AT ALL.

It wasn’t just me, and it wasn’t just him, it was what we were together that was the exception. Lately, this feels like tearing flesh.

thelovejournals

I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, Kiss me harder, and You’re a good person, and, You brighten my day. I live my life as straight-forward as possible. Because one day, I might get hit by a bus. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands. But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate. And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care. We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans. We never know when the bus is coming.

Rachel C. Lewis, Tell the People you Love You Love Them

But here's the wonderfully delicious part about it:

I feel ALIVE. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm SEEN. I don't feel as empty. I feel, kind of, free.

TOO BAD I HAVE TO DESTROY YOU NOW.

#sometimeinmotherfuckingmay

I don't want to be me for a while. I'm tired. I've gotta get away from Her and conjure up another one.

People are asking me how I plan on managing this and all I can say is "Well, I'm gonna be extroverted. I'm gonna get out of my shell, out of my home, and light a fire under my ass. I wanna feel something. I wanna make a mistake, but the deliciously wonderful kind. You know?" Nobody really knows. But I know. You see, I've got plans. Big plans! The kind of shit only a 25 year old WOMAN can come up with. I emphasize the 'woman' cause I've never felt as comfortable in my skin as I do today. It's strange, cause of what's happened, but it's true. I feel confident and daring. And grown. I'm assuming it's because it's Taurus season and since I'm ruled by Venus, she's in me and all around me. Naturally, I'd glow. There are things my squirmy little mind needs to do. And I'm gonna go out and do them.

My new journal, featuring a minimalistic calendar, poetry about my zodiac sign, and a book review.

#myjournal

Be mindful of your aura and your energy, motherfuckers. Sometimes I wish I was different. Sometimes. I'm at a point in my life where being introspective isn't enough. I'm doing other stuff. Like, dissecting my entire goddamn personality. And other things. How does one let loose?

#a portrait #sometimeinmay

#sometimeinmay

The day after my birthday felt like waking up. It felt like the real New Year, and the other one was some crappy diary entry that I ended up tearing out and throwing away. I felt loved, and happily tired. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and stretched upward, with my arms above my head, until my lungs gave out cause I'd been holding my breath in. I was awake. The surprises that I got and the love that I received was unlike anything I've ever seen before. It was the very best birthday I could have. The very, very best. I was surprised with a brand new TV, three bouquets of flowers, beer, cake, a card, yummy and delicious food, hugs, head-kisses, laughs, well wishes, and sex. The day after my birthday felt like waking up after a coma. I can finally see again.

#thedayafter

THE EXTENDED VERSION Things I learned at 25: Always speak up for yourself. People will try and run you over. Fuck that. Take it from someone who hates confrontation, sometimes it truly is necessary. But only sometimes. Self love will come to you in a dream; believe in it. Savor the temporary feeling of a high self confidence when you're dolled the fuck up, or freshly woken up from a long nights sleep and your tummy is magically slender than before. Whatever it is, cling to it! Believe in it! Never let a man interrupt you or try and outsmart you. I'll bet he can't. Self care isn't always pretty, but it's worth it. It can be downright ugly but it's gotta get done. Your sanity is at stake. Practice it at least once a week. Detoxify your life, home, and relationships. Always tear out what's unhealthy. Motherhood was meant for me, after all. I'm actually pretty good at it. I saw myself as a mother after 27, but 25 ain't so bad. Getting pregnant at 23 wasn't so bad either. I love my son, and I love myself around him. My life wouldn't be my life if it wasn't for him. All children are angels. All of them. Empathy is pure. It's a burden at times but it is magical and you'll soon come to realize that not everybody knows how to use it or owns it. Summon a goddess or two when you need the escape and the muse. There's one for your home life and love life and LIFE and for turmoil and for strength and you fucking name it. They're like little mentors. Make a playlist for every mood you could possibly be in. You've got plenty of moods to choose from! Your body really is a temple. Be good to it. That's all. Goodbye. ✨

#mybirthday

#mood

Poetry is no place for a heart that’s a whore. And I’m young and I’m strong, but I feel old and tired. Over fired. And I’ve been poked and stoked its all smoke! There’s no more fire! Only desire… For you, whoever you are… For you, whoever you are…

You say my time here has been some sort of joke. That I’ve been messing around. Some sort of incubating period… For when I really come around. I’m cracking up. And you have no idea! No idea how it feels to be on your own… In your own home… With the fucking phone… And the mother of gloom in your bedroom, standing over your head… With her hand in your head… With her hand in your head. I will not pretend! I will not put on a smile! I will not say I’m all right for you! When all I wanted was to be good… To do everything in truth. To do everything in truth. Oh I wish, I wish, I wish I was born a man… So I could learn how to stand up for myself like those guys with guitars I’ve been watching in bars who’ve been stamping their feet to a different beat… To a different beat… To a different beat. I will not pretend! I will not put on a smile! I will not say I’m all right for you!!! When all I wanted was to be good… To do everything in truth. To do everything in truth.

You bloody mother fucking asshole… Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole… Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole…

I will not pretend! I will not put on a smile! I will not say I’m all right for youuuu! For you, whoever you are.

#mymusic

Bloody motherfuc*ing as*hole.

I was triggered.

I’ve learned just how important it is to tell your story. It helps you rummage around the scene of the crime and answer any unanswered questions. Cause there’s always questions. There’s always some doubt. And nobody can answer the questions for me except me, and him. And nobody can make my doubt swim away, except me.

It’s sad to even doubt that it was a rape because it was. It’s easy to try and justify it to be something else, but it isn’t. He wasn’t just having a bad day or in a mood. This was someone that I’d known for a very long time. For years. Someone who admired me from afar and when I finally became his lover… he flipped. This was someone that I slept with for weeks before it went south. He wasn’t some stranger and it wasn’t our first time. He was soaked in alcohol. He was leaving to college the very next morning. He sunk his nails into my hips and at the very first thrust my pelvis was on fire. Nothing was gentle, or sensual. He was rough and quick. My arms ached and my pussy throbbed. His teeth were at my neck and he bit me on my shoulders as well as my back. And me? I was vocal. I asked him to slow down but he ignored me. I asked him to stop soon after that and he ignored that too. I struggled and went limp. I scrambled and fought and went limp. I was weak. I remember the weight of his body on top of mine as he flipped me over and dug my head into his mattress. I remember only the sound of his grunts and the headboard beating up against his bedroom wall. I initially felt like he was on a mission. He was drunk and had dead eyes. I knew he partied too hard but I assumed he wanted to end it with me, all luscious and welcoming. But I was wrong. The mission was something else entirely. I don’t remember the actual act of it very well anymore. It’s been six years. I actually think I blocked it off right after it happened. But I do remember myself in my bathtub afterward. It was 6 in the morning and I scrubbed my skin raw. Every inch of me. I had bruises and teeth marks that needing soaking. I needed to wash everything off. Everything. Everything. It makes me sick. It does. And I can’t believe I had questions. But that’s what being 18 does to you… You know what I mean…

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